


Taking Liberties

by Strawberry_Champagne



Category: Tales of Vesperia
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2248137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Champagne/pseuds/Strawberry_Champagne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emperor Ioder rarely hears anyone call him by his first name. Not even his Commandant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Liberties

When you are named the leader of an empire, your name becomes an accessory of sorts. The least important part, sometimes optional. “His Royal Highness, Emperor Ioder.” More often, simply “Your Highness” or “Your Majesty.” It is, Ioder knows, a gesture of respect, and one he should be used to by now as he was groomed for the position, and yet he still finds it somewhat unsettling. Finds himself wondering at times when someone last addressed him only by his given name. (Five weeks is the current record. Then Estelle returned from a long journey that was part of her duties as vice-emperor and ambassador—he could hear her call out his name from halfway across the courtyard, and smiled into her embrace.)

No one at court, it seems, can bring themselves to address him so casually—not even in private, not even people that he has known for years. When Ioder addresses the citizens of Zaphias, making decrees and granting requests, the newly minted Commandant Flynn Scifo is frequently a constant but unobtrusive presence just out of the corner of Ioder’s eye. If he has a suggestion or a warning—the emperor welcomes both from his most trusted advisors—the man steps to his side fluidly, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, back straight.

“Your Highness,” he says, low and urgent, and Ioder tries not to visibly wince.

Flynn has always seemed to be a great believer in protocol, in clear boundaries of social standing. In truth, Ioder admires that about him—admires many things about the knight, from his refusal to be defined by his youthful age (a trait they share) to the respect he has earned from his brigade, a result of his reputation of being strict but fair.

There are other things that Ioder pretends not to admire. The strong yet soft line of his jaw; eyes a breath-catching blue that can be hardened with resolve, but that are most often directed at him along with a gentle smile. Ioder keeps to himself the extent that it irritates him when someone believes them to be related; hair and eye color aside, he is not so narcissistic that he would be attracted to a mirror image, yet there is little he can say to quell the ignorant comparisons. Not without revealing far more than he intended.

The role of commandant is, in Ioder’s estimation, equally as important as his own—if not more so, especially as they face the challenges of a world without the often taken for granted protection of the barriers. Soothing the panic and averting monster attacks is a daily struggle that takes the knights and their leader far afield—it means a fatigued and stress-worn Commandant when he can be found in the capital, so Ioder is honored whenever Flynn seeks out his company, even on the pretense of imperial business. Their meetings are somewhat more formal than he would like, but they nonetheless develop a rapport that Ioder cannot help but be pleased with.

Flynn is not always serious, and it is good to be the one to make him laugh. At one time, Ioder had thought the swordsman Yuri Lowell was the only one capable of coaxing genuine relaxed amusement out of the man—had even speculated…well. It is useless to speculate, and Yuri haunts the halls all the more infrequently as guild business keeps him occupied. Flynn still speaks of him often, however, and fondly. Ioder cannot help but be a little envious of their long history and childhood adventures, which he hears in bits and pieces, stories that begin with “and then there was the time—”

“Do you miss him?” Ioder finds himself asking one afternoon, and nearly drives a palm into his forehead for fielding such a question. At the window, Flynn turns to face him with a considering expression.

“Sometimes,” he says. “But Yuri has a wandering spirit, and his own goals to achieve. I cannot fault him for that. And besides, our friendship isn't defined by how often we are able to spend time together.”

Ioder nods, though inwardly chastising himself for being relieved that the knight does not sound overly wistful.

\----

There are certain dangers that accompany the title of Emperor, not least being that you become a prime target for kidnapping and attempts on your life. Ioder is no stranger to this from his upbringing as imperial candidate, still vividly remembers many incidents in which bodyguards took blows meant for himself. His own life nearly ended in the seas just off Port Nor. Memories of the event begin with coughing up saltwater on the deck of an imperial ship, Flynn’s worried face fading in and out of his vision.

The danger only escalates after his coronation, however. Most plots are foiled before they can begin—Ioder has Flynn and his Imperial Guard to thank for that—but some are far too close for comfort. An arrow directed at his heart goes wide as it bounces from a shield; a poison-tipped dagger is confiscated at the entrance of Ioder’s audience chamber, its wielder dragged away in chains. He has held the throne for a couple of years when a group hoping to seize control of the empire manages to fight off Ioder’s retinue of personal guards and (gradually, impossibly) take over the castle.

Ioder can only wait, trapped in his own chambers, watching one of the kidnappers sharpens their sword. All offers for ransom have been met with scornful laughter. Ioder almost stops counting the days that pass with little change when he hears the clang of steel echoing down the halls. The man on a chair in the corner lifts his head, distracted, and Ioder sees what may be his only opportunity. He is no great warrior, but Drake’s training was thorough, enough for him to direct a well-placed blow at the man’s stomach, snatching up the abandoned sword as he doubles over, groaning. That is where Ioder’s plan runs out—the castle is still filled with usurpers, and he is unable to tell who is winning from the muffled sounds outside the door. Mind racing, he directs the point of the sword at his kidnapper’s throat, flicks his eyes over to the door when it is flung open.

“Seize that man,” says the Commandant, and a pair of knights rush into the room to follow his orders. Flynn watches them drag the man away, but his gaze snaps back to Ioder when the door is shut behind them.

“Are you injured?” he asks immediately, and something in his expression relaxes when Ioder shakes his head. “Good. That last means that they've all been accounted for. We've regained control of the castle.”

Flynn must have been at this for many hours, sounds as if he is just beginning to lose his voice from shouting to the men and women under his command. His eyes are bright and lively, however, as if he is still running on pure adrenaline. He takes a deep breath and exhales, looks at Ioder for a long minute.

“It is good to see you whole,” he says at last, unsteadily. “There were rumors, likely spread by your captors…we did not know what to believe…”

Ioder wants to say something comforting or grateful, but finds himself staring into an expression he can’t decipher. And then Flynn dips to kiss him, and words become completely out of the question. It happens far too quickly. Blue eyes fly open in alarm as Flynn steps back and away—clearly this would never have been premeditated his part. Ioder is seized with panic, even through the haze of shock and delight, because he must salvage this before Flynn offers to be jailed for crossing such an extreme line of protocol. (And he would.) As Flynn begins to turn, Ioder reaches for his arm, doesn't wait for an apology. Pulling him down and sealing their mouths together should be permission enough.

To his credit, Flynn makes no objection—far from it, he falls into the task eagerly, one hand dropping to rest at Ioder’s waist, the other across his back. ‘Pleasant’ does not truly begin to describe it, Ioder’s heart racing at sensations he had always assumed would remain a fantasy. Flynn deepens the kiss and Ioder is suddenly aware of the space between them, the stiff metal edges digging a little into his back.

It takes every ounce of willpower to break away; Flynn’s cheeks are flushed, eyes questioning.

“Later,” Ioder says, not quite a question, and Flynn nods. It is with regret that Ioder watches him go; there are duties to perform, citizens to assure of his safety and continued well-being. They must remain his first priority. 

\----

In truth, Ioder expects that will be the end of it. The commandant will have time to think, time to assemble a list of reasons why such encounters are wrong, impossible. Perhaps avoid him for a time. So it is with some surprise that the next day Ioder looks up from signing a document at his desk to find Flynn striding purposefully toward him, the door latched shut.

Ioder rises from the chair, and it is as if they begin right where they had left off. Uncomfortable metal edges and all.

“You could, ah…remove your armor, if you wish,” he says, and Flynn seems to swallow a nervous laugh. His hands slide away, and he begins to remove the gauntlets—Ioder watches him for a moment, then realizes this will take far less time if he assists him. He reaches around to unfasten Flynn’s sword belt, sets it gently aside. All the metal and protective pieces are removed in this way; it’s only then that Ioder realizes it has been quite some time since he had last seen Flynn without his full commandant uniform. The man seems…a bit younger somehow, this way. More real. Ioder is staring at the blue tunic covering Flynn’s chest when he hears a soft, throat-clearing sound.

“Do you want me to remove this, too?” asks Flynn, and the hint of suggestion in his tone is amplified by the way his voice rasps just a little. Ioder thinks that he should be blushing, but he’s pretty sure that most of his blood is headed in the opposite direction. He nods wordlessly, mouth dry as the tunic is pulled up over Flynn’s back and shoulders, noting appreciatively the play of muscle under the exposed, lightly tanned skin.

The tunic goes…somewhere. Ioder isn't really paying attention. He plucks at the silken fabric tucked at his neck that at the moment feels much, much too stifling. It loosens, falls away, and Ioder is moving to shrug off his fitted coat when his breath catches, eyes closing on their own volition as Flynn’s hands slide up beneath his shirt, thumbs dragging across his ribs. They’re softer than Ioder might have guessed, though sword-callused. 

Things blur a bit at this point as they somehow make their way toward a bed, but there’s more kissing, loosened laces, until there is nothing but skin and warmth between them. Flynn is a gentle, patient lover—he explores Ioder’s body almost reverently, as if astonished that he has been granted such a privilege. It is, as with much else about him, an admirable trait…but in this moment, somewhat maddening.

“Please,” says Ioder, careful not to sound too desperate, and Flynn must understand. Something flashes through those eyes, sharpening in intensity. It is not long after that they are a moving tangle, touch intentional and heated, breath heavy. It’s a bit fumbling at first, learning each other, but when Flynn finds a rhythm that evokes what must be very undignified sounds for an emperor to make, he actually grins—a quick thing that Ioder isn't entirely sure he did not imagine.

Regardless, it feels amazing. Ioder doesn't have the capacity to analyze much at this point, other than a distant astonishment that this moment is real. The rest of his concentration has fallen apart completely, mind overwhelmed by sharp points of pleasure under Flynn’s movement and touch. He can feel the tension coiling, both within himself and beneath the hands that roam the knight’s body. Flynn lowers his head to kiss Ioder hard, muscles spasming under fingers that rake over his back, then slide up to tangle in his hair.

“Ioder,” he says, on a stuttering, exhaled breath, and if that is not what pushes Ioder himself over the edge, it is a close thing. Hearing those syllables from the knight, informal and unadorned, somehow amplifies the moment’s intimacy. It has never sounded better.

They catch their breath together; Flynn meets Ioder’s eye and laughs a little, and Ioder can’t help but join him. Because it is a little absurd, the straight-laced commandant sharing his emperor’s bed. Ioder imagines they are not the first in the empire’s history to find themselves in a such a position; the history books speak of many such arrangements, though he cannot remember any specific instances that mirror their own. He chooses to believe that they are unique, because the man beside him is beautiful and golden. And Ioder admires every inch of him, every quality invisible to the eye, abruptly seized with a fear that Flynn may yet change his mind.

But when Ioder wraps an arm around him, the man leans into it with a soft smile, his eyes slipping closed as he returns the gesture, content. They will not have long to rest; others will seek them out. For now, however, Ioder will look forward to the next opportunity to hear Flynn Scifo say his name.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted anonymously on the Tales of Kink Meme, September 22, 2010.


End file.
